


That Bagshot Boy

by Lizard_Hans



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Godric's Hollow, House Elves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-26 17:52:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15668250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizard_Hans/pseuds/Lizard_Hans
Summary: Bathilda Bagshot goes out for an evening stroll on Halloween of 1981, and finds a baby in a burning house.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Updates will be very slow.

Bathilda took a walk in the evening. The autumn air was crisp and cool, candles and carved pumpkins decorated a number of the houses she passed, and dead leaves crunched beneath her feet as she wandered the winding streets of Godric's Hollow. Batty Old Bagshot, tottering down the lane in the middle of the night, wearing a shawl around her shoulders for warmth, her wand tucked into a pocket, and a jaunty little tune rasping from her lips. Her hair was a pile of silvery fluff, her skin wrinkled and leather, big blue eyes looked out from deeply sunken sockets.

Bathilda came wandering around a corner, and there was a loud crackling noise, like a bonfire, and the sound of splintering wood. Down the lane a house was burning. Bathilda might be dotty in her old age but she was quite sure there had not been a house there moments ago.  In fact, she couldn't recall there ever being a house on this particular corner, but then again, her memory was not what it used to be.

She ought to make sure none of her muggle neighbors had set their home on fire and been trapped inside, Bathilda had heard of the strangest things happening to muggles as of late. While she might not be close to her muggle neighbors, she did not wish them ill. As she approached the house, the smoke stung her eyes and lungs. Bathilda pulled her wand from her pocket and muttered a spell with a quick flick of her wrist. A bubble of fresh air formed around her head, flakes of blackened ash danced across the outer edges of the bubble, gathering until they fell to the ground. She wandered into the burning house, poking around, levitating burning wood out of her path and casting flame freezing charms on herself every few minutes.

“Oh dear, someone is going to be quite upset. No fire-suppression wards, what were they thinking?” Bathilda asked, and no one answered. She continued her search, not at a particularly urgent speed. She passed a pile of robes, slightly singed, but otherwise untouched. A dark shape on the ground. Bathilda squinted, but she’d left her glasses at home and no amount of squinting would bring that dark shape into focus, and she wandered on past. The thought that it might have been a corpse that she’d just walked by never crossed her mind.

There was a noise over the sound of flames and burning wood, a high, piecing noise - a child’s screams. Bathilda put out a few more small fires, and came to a room that had once been a nursery. There was a crib in the center of the room, and the floor around the crib in a perfect circle around it was unburnt, but the rest of the room was little more than rubble and embers. If Bathilda hadn’t lost her sense of smell decades before she might have caught a whiff of a smell somewhat similar to a pork roast left in the oven far too long, but Bathilda had no sense of smell, and the child’s cries drew her focus away from anything else which lay, burning, on the floor.

In the crib was a baby, small and crying very loudly, a cut on his forehead bled quite a lot. Bathilda picked the boy up in her frail arms, he cried and cried. Bathilda tried to hush the child, she’d cared for many, many children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and all variety of nieces and nephews in her years, she knew exactly how to handle a child, or so she thought. She cast a calming charm on the boy, and as she found her way from the burning house the boy fell deeply asleep in her arms.

“It’s too late to be up and about.” Bathilda said to the sleeping child. “I’ll sort it out in the morning, no doubt about it. Tomorrow morning, bright and early.” she said, carrying the boy back the direction she’d come. The aurors would take care of the house, Bathilda thought, or maybe the muggle firemen, she wasn’t quite sure who owned the house. She had to rest several times on the short walk back to her house, this little boy was heavier than she’d thought, but a feather-light charm solved that.

Bathilda lived in a cottage near the edge of town, an old, and rather unmaintained home. She lay the sleeping baby on her couch, the boy stirred a moment, then continued sleeping. He looked very cute, Bathilda thought, lying on the bright, floral upholstery. Bathilda sat down in her own armchair, red faded to pink with the long years of use. With a flick of her wand the fireplace roared to life, the autumn chill soon left her bones. Bathilda soon fell asleep where she sat, all plans of bringing the boy to the Ministry of Magic to track down his family and such fled her mind.

Bathilda slept quite soundly, and it was the house elf Kettle who found the boy some hours later, awake and about to take a tumble off the couch. Kettle, elderly with tufts of gray hair growing from his ears and a hunched back came to check on Lady Bagshot, as he called Bathilda. Instead, he found a baby, awake and staring at him with bright green eyes.

“Mama?” the baby said, and Kettle sighed. He’d experienced more than a couple generations of Bagshot children and miscellaneous young relatives, he’d hoped that Lady Bagshot’s increasing age would prevent this… infestation. Kettle had survived many, many summers in this house with children’s laughter and crying echoing in every corner of the house all summer long. It wasn’t the noise which bothered Kettle, no, it was the mess that the young humans brought with them, the endless spills and accidents, scuffs on the walls, dents on the floors, dirt and mud tracked all through the house, and improper uses of the toilet facilities abounding. Kettle shuddered at the very thought of the disorder and mess that invariably accompanied young humans, he’d hoped those terrible times were far behind him.

Kettle picked up the boy and placed him on the ground for the moment, the boy obviously needed a new diaper, and probably food as well.

“What is your name little wizard?” Kettle asked, were Lady Bagshot awake he might address the child with more respect, but the child wouldn’t know the difference. The boy looked around.

“Mama? Dada?” the boy asked with some urgency. Kettle braced himself for the crying soon to come, but the boy continued watching Kettle quite intently.

“Your name?” Kettle repeated. Maybe the boy didn’t know how to say his name yet? Humans took awhile to learn such things sometimes. The boy said something, slurred as it was. Kettle took a moment to properly comprehend what the boy had said.

“Harry?” Kettle said and the boy’s attention returned to the elf. “Harry it is.” Kettle carefully set the boy on the carpeted floor. “Kettle will return, but Lady Bagshot’s breakfast must be prepared.” Kettle said, placing a bit of magic around the boy, he would know if the boy harmed himself and be back in the blink of an eye. Kettle vanished, and Harry began to slowly explore his surroundings, looking for his mother and father.

Kettle presented Bathilda with breakfast when she woke, and Kettle asked permission to spend a little more than usual to purchase diapers and food appropriate for a young child. Bathilda nodded along between bites of bacon and toast, she felt as though she’d forgotten something quite important.

Later that evening Bathilda remembered that she planned to take little Harry to the ministry, but a floo call from a neighbor interrupted that thought. Bathilda received the news that Voldemort had vanished, and like the rest of the wizarding community she celebrated. The weeks following were quite busy, Bathilda’s neighbors invited her to tea to speak about the recent news, the newspapers were sending out updates every few hours it seemed, and Bathilda decided that it might be better to wait until the ministry had time to calm down a little before trying to bring little Harry there. As usual, Bathilda soon forgot her intentions, and Kettle went on caring for little Harry as he had cared for many children during his long service to the Bagshot family.

Harry was moved into one of the old children’s rooms in the Bagshot house, Kettle found a child’s crib in the attic and set it up. Bathilda had her good days, when she cooed over Harry and dimly remembered that he was not hers, not really, but on her bad days she would call Harry by a hundred other names and speak to him about events that occurred decades ago.

“Kettle, bring Nathaniel to me.” Bathilda would say, and Kettle would bring little Harry, but keep a very close eye on the two of them to ensure no harm came to the child. On her bad days Bathilda couldn’t say what decade it was, much less correctly identify which child was living in her house.

Days became months. Bathilda lived a quiet, lonely life these days. Her mind was declining and had been for years, her few friends were either long dead or quite estranged, her neighbors only paid enough attention to her to ensure that she hadn’t gone and died in her sleep without anyone noticing.

In the months following Voldemort’s disappearance the chaos that spread throughout the wizarding world was enough that many, many things went unnoticed. Sirius Black was imprisoned without trial. Peter Pettigrew turned into a rat and faked his own death. Harry Potter was declared dead, that a child could escape when his parents both lay dead and their corpses burned to ash was inconceivable, and no sign of the boy was found.

So far as the neighbors were aware, Bathilda Bagshot had some little great-grand nephew or another staying with her. Bathilda’s situation appeared to be similar to many older witches and wizards after the war, many children were orphaned and sent to live with distant relatives. Months stretched into years, and the presence of that black haired boy at the Bagshot house was not questioned overly much, Bathilda might be batty as a church’s attic but Kettle was a good caretaker and the boy looked healthy and happy enough to satisfy any concerned neighbors who might drop in for tea to check on the boy.


	2. the snake incident

Harry was well known around Godric’s Hollow, “That Bagshot Boy” as the old timers called him, just as they had called a great many children living at the Bagshot house in the decades before. He was a bit of a wild child, always running about, playing loud games of chase with the other children, muggle and magical alike, sneaking after rabbits and stray cats, collecting acorns and berries for reasons unknown. 

The boy obviously had little supervision. Bathilda frequently forgot his name or who he was, on a few memorable occasions when Harry was up late she’d thought he was a robber and attempted to curse him until Kettle wisely intervened. Kettle, though up in years for a house elf, and positively ancient had he been a human, ensured that Harry had proper nutrition and enough manners that he didn’t always act like he’d been raised in a barn. 

Kettle had been tasked with teaching a number of young witches and wizards their manners and letters and such in decades past, and though his methods were strict and his voice a low, rasping drone, he taught Harry just the same as all those other children who’d passed through the Bagshot house at one time or another.

Learning his letters and numbers from Kettle was quite fine for a time, but Harry was young, energetic, and bored out of his skull. Being trapped in the house with Bathilda and Kettle all the time was enough to drive a child to tears, the Bagshot house was quiet and slow-moving, Bathilda was asleep by six in the evening every night, and strict routine was absolutely necessary to keep Bathilda from becoming any more confused than usual. Harry, like most children, craved excitement and adventure, and he’d get neither of those in the Bagshot house unless Bathilda was having a bad day, and that was excitement of the entirely wrong sort.

The local children were fun to play games with during the summers, when it was warm outside and everyone was home from school, but as soon as fall came the town became much quieter, and colder too. The muggle families in town sent their children to school during the day, only a few families boarded their children elsewhere for the year. 

The wizarding families often traveled, staying in some winter home or another, and the older children attended school during most of the year. Godric’s Hollow, among muggles, was solidly working class; but among wizards it was home to some of the minor old families, wealthy in their own right but no Malfoy or Longbottom family.

Wizards didn’t have primary school, children were expected to be educated by their family until age eleven. It usually fell to the mothers, older siblings, or house elves to teach children how to read and count and write. Kettle had those areas covered, but Harry spent many chilly days spying on the muggle schoolchildren through the classroom window of the local muggle primary school. His friends he’d played with all summer were in school, and Harry could see them laughing together at recess, and being taught all sorts of strange, muggle things by their teachers. He could find lovely little perches in the branches of the trees around the school, and like a little bird he’d wait and watch the muggle classes through the window.

He had an old winter cloak, a bit moth eaten, but quite warm. He’d found it in the attic and convinced Bathilda to put a notice-me-not charm on it, one he had to beg her to reapply every few days if he wanted to stay unnoticed by the muggles. Bathilda, on her lucid days, would hardly humor such a request from a child, imaging all the trouble he could get himself into with a cloak spelled unnoticeable. On her less lucid days, which steadily became more frequent with fewer gaps in between, Bathilda could be convinced, much to Kettle’s irritation, to cast minor spells and charms for Harry, often thinking that Harry was someone else entirely.

“Little Harry, you mustn’t get into such trouble.” Kettle would say when Harry inevitably came running home after being shooed off by the muggles. On one memorable occasion a muggle teacher caught Harry spying and thought that he must be one of her own students trying to escape and had him sit through the rest of the school day in her class. 

When the muggle children Harry played with asked him why he never had to go to school like they did, Harry would simply shrug and say that he had a tutor at home, which led those children to believe that Harry either came from a very wealthy family, or was too mad to send to school with all the ‘normal’ children. Harry knew he couldn’t tell them about magic, Kettle made very sure Harry knew that rule.

When the winter became truly cold, and Kettle put his foot down and forbid Harry from spending the day outdoors because he would freeze his toes and fingers off. Once Harry confirmed that it was, in fact, possible to freeze one’s fingers and toes off, he gladly stayed inside for a time. Staying indoors all day came with its own difficulties, sometimes he was forced to have tea with Bathilda, but Bathilda often thought Harry was someone else. 

Harry would spend several hours nodding along while Bathilda addressed him as Gillert or Gerald or Charles and spoke to him about people and events she thought he knew about. But once Harry got through tea with Bathilda, and escaped from Kettle’s lessons, he could climb up the folding ladder into the attic, where all the interesting things were kept.

The Bagshot house might as well be a library, every wall seemed to be covered in books, but very few of them had any pictures at all, and so lost Harry’s interest very quickly. But the attic, Harry could spend all day in the attic. Bathilda had never been one to throw anything away, and being a witch she could spell a room larger on the inside than it was every built to be. The attic was one such space, filled with old furniture and boxes upon boxes of things Bathilda had gathered over the years. 

Some of the boxes were simply books that didn’t fit in the rest of the house, but most of the boxes were things that Bathilda had moved into the attic because the owners of these things were long gone. The belongings of Bathilda’s two husbands were in the attic, the first died in a potions brewing accident and the second of old age some twenty years ago. The belongings left behind by Bathilda’s parents, grandparents, siblings, children, grandchildren, cousins, and all imaginable relations were there, as Bathilda was now among the last of her line, and the oldest by far.

Harry would go into the attic and pick a box to search through. Many of the boxes contained only boring dusty things, like more books without pictures, or letters in fancy cursive which Harry couldn’t quite read. Some boxes were full of interesting stuff, like old clothes Harry could try on, or strange crystals and rocks, or jars with preserved animals and plants floating inside. Kettle tried to keep Harry from stumbling upon anything dangerous, Kettle had lived in this house long enough that he knew almost everything that was in the attic and was able to hide the dangerous things on high shelves that Harry couldn’t reach. More than once Kettle popped into the attic just in time to keep an old wand or rusted potions knife from Harry’s grasp, much to Harry’s disappointment.

Things weren’t always good. Some days were very bad for Bathilda, some days she thought Harry was someone else and she’d begin screaming at him about things he’d never done. Kettle usually warned Harry on those days, saying that Harry had best spend the day playing outdoors or reading in his room, but sometimes it happened too suddenly for Kettle to warn him. Those days scared Harry. Kind, old Bathilda would look at him with utter hate, or worse yet, fear, and Harry knew it wasn’t him that she was seeing but all the same it hurt. Then there was the snake incident, thankfully it had been Kettle there instead of Bathilda. 

Harry had been eight or so, playing in the back garden at the Bagshot house. Kettle grew some herbs and vegetables in the garden, and Harry liked to try and help with the watering and harvesting. Kettle had shown Harry how to pick the ripe blackberries from the unripe or rotten ones. Harry was deep in the brambles, picking blackberry spines from his skin and clothes. His pockets were full of berries, many of them squished, and Harry had eaten most of the ripe berries he’d found. Kettle wasn’t far away, he was much more careful about picking berries. Harry heard a soft, whispering voice from deep in the tangle of blackberry bushes.

_“Come back here toad. I can taste you, where are you little toad?”_ Harry crouched down, trying to find the source of the voice. He pulled aside blackberry branches, wincing as thorns pricked his fingers. 

_“Hello?”_ Harry asked. 

_“It speaks?”_ the voice sounded quite close. Harry looked around but saw no one. _“Stupid mammal, look down.”_ on the ground, near Harry’s feet, sat a small grass snake. It’s mottled brown scales blending in among the dirt and dead leaves. It looked up at Harry with the sort of concentration Harry didn’t expect of a reptile.

_“You can talk?”_ Harry had never heard of talking snakes, but maybe it had escaped from some other witch or wizard’s home. 

_“Evidently.”_ the snake responded in an annoyed tone.

_“I’ve never met a talking snake.”_ Harry said, surprised and excited, a talking snake, this was by far the neatest thing to happen today. The snake scoffed, or hissed, but the tone was the same.

_“And I’ve never met a human who can speak. What of it? Have you seen a toad?”_ the snake asked.

_“No, sorry.”_ Harry had not seen a toad. The snake began to slither away, deeper into the tangle of blackberries where Harry couldn’t follow.

_“Useless mammal.”_ the grass snake said, and vanished into the underbrush. Harry watched after it, but the snake did not come back.

“Little Harry, did Kettle hear… hissing?” Kettle asked, gray wrinkled face looking through a gap in the branches, looking very concerned.

“There was a talking snake.” Harry said with a grin, but at Kettle’s suddenly fearful expression Harry stopped smiling. “Is something wrong?” Harry asked, he couldn’t think of anything he’d done to upset Kettle.

“Kettle thinks it is best to go inside. Kettle must explain this to Little Harry.” Kettle said, in a serious tone that left no room for argument. Harry picked his way through the blackberry bushes and followed Kettle inside. Kettle checked on Bathilda first, but she was asleep in her bed, it was still early in the morning. 

Harry sat down at the kitchen table, and Kettle brought in a large book with a dark leather cover and set it on the table in front of Harry. Kettle had to stand up on the chair to look at the book properly, flipping to the index to find the correct page. Harry waited, his pockets were still full of blackberries and his skin and clothes were stained purple in many places. 

“Little Harry heard the snake speak, and spoke to it?” Kettle asked, and Harry nodded. Kettle found the page he was looking for and spun the book around so that Harry could read. “If Lady Bagshot does not ask, Kettle thinks that this should not be told. Little Harry might be making some wizards angry.” Kettle said, and Harry read the page Kettle had turned to.

_Parseltongue is the language of serpents, and those beasts which bear great similarity to serpents. It is the corruption of magic which gives rise to such people who speak parseltongue, called Parselmouths. The continued use of dark magic for many generations leads to the progeny of those families taking on bestial character, speaking the language of animals as if it were their mother tongue. Such notable individuals as Herpo the Foul and Salazar Slytherin have possessed this ability, which gives great insight into the character of Parselmouths. Parseltongue was discovered to be a hereditary ailment by the Great Paracelsus, such corruption as gives rise to parselmouths is not confined to a single individual but is the corruption of the entire bloodline. If those evildoers who wield the powers of darkness are to be eradicated, one must eradicate the bloodlines which continue to carry such corrupted magic through the generations._

Harry looked from the page to Kettle, he felt quite ill.

“I didn’t mean to, the snake just- maybe I made it up, I just wanted to tell a good story. Please Kettle.” Harry said frantically, maybe he could lie and say he’d just made the whole thing up as a joke. Kettle looked quite shaken, his ears drooping. He leaned across the small kitchen table and laid a gnarled hand on Harry’s shoulder.

“Little Harry, worry not. Kettle will never harm you. Kettle is a good elf, but there are bad wizards and Kettle cannot protect against all of them.” Kettle said in a gentle, rasping voice. “Bad wizards fear many things, so you mustn’t tell them of this. Little Harry, please tell Kettle that you will not tell anyone of this.” Harry nodded, shaking a bit.

“I won’t tell anyone Kettle, I’ll never tell anyone I can talk to snakes.”

And that was that. Kettle made blackberry tart that evening and Bathilda told Harry he looked a bit ill and suggested he take a pepper-up potion, but Kettle said that Harry didn’t weight enough for that potion, so Bathilda sent Harry to bed early instead. Harry told no one about the snake, and Kettle did not mention it again. The book Kettle had shown Harry was returned to its shelf, Harry found it some months later and recognized it. He read the entire book in one afternoon and it made him feel sick and gave him nightmares for some days. 

The book was called Finding Evil: Signs and Omens of Dark Magic, by Heinrich Hammerstone. The entire book was more of the same, it was supposed to be a guide to finding and fighting dark magic, but instead it was a list of traits and behaviors that supposedly signify evil so that such evil people can be killed before they truly become powerful. Reading the book Harry could only imagine how many people, like him, were just people with weird skills, and his dreams were consumed with being chased by mobs of people trying to kill him or Bathilda seeing him speak to a snake and turning him out of the house. 

Only a few days after Harry found the book it went missing, Harry suspected that Kettle had moved it somewhere Harry wouldn’t be able to find it again. Eventually Harry moved on, months passed and nothing happened, no mobs showed up at the door, Bathilda continued being her usual, dotty, self and Harry didn’t see any more snakes outside, nor did he go looking for them.


	3. Birthdays and Wands

As Harry grew older, and Bathilda grew ever battier, Kettle had less time to devote to wrangling Harry. Bathilda needed to be watched more often, and was more liable to get herself hurt on accident than Harry was these days. Harry was often running about the town and the surrounding countryside like a feral child, “There goes that Bagshot boy, causing trouble as usual.” was an often heard phrase among the locals, though as Harry grew older he heard occasionally a new phrase muttered about him“It’s like James all over again, that hair, and he causes just as much trouble.”, usually this was said by one of the old-timers, and accompanied by a shake of their head, maybe a sigh. 

Harry turned nine with little fanfare, Kettle made Harry some cookies and Bathilda thought Harry was someone named Jason for most of the afternoon. Harry had finally moved past his disliking of books without pictures, there were still lots of boring books in Bathilda’s collection, but some of them were quite good. 

Harry read a lot about the history of Godric’s Hollow, he enjoyed reading about a place and then going outside and visiting the place he’d read about. Others might have thought Harry to be quite a morbid child, but Harry could name every single person in the wizarding section of the Godric’s Hollow cemetery, and he could even say what a good many of them did during their lives, though the more weathered headstones continued to elude his knowledge. 

On some of Bathilda’s more lucid days Harry accompanied her on afternoon walks and Bathilda was quite pleased that Harry could talk about local history so well, they would often walk past the cemetery on these walks and Bathilda quizzed Harry on those buried there. Bathilda not only knew a lot about seemingly every bit of history, local or not, but she knew a great many of the people buried in that cemetery personally and could talk at length about them. 

The graves Harry knew the least about were the newer ones, those names were not in Bathilda’s library, and Bathilda didn’t know them either, she’d long since been retired and her mind long since deteriorating when the occupants of those newer graves had died. 

Harry spent a number of afternoons at the local church, St. Jerome’s, as it was among the oldest buildings in town, and eventually Father Michael gave Harry a tour of all the parts of the church that people weren’t normally allowed to go, like up in the bell tower and in the basement and such. Father Michael laughed a bit at Harry’s enthusiasm for history, few children would sit through hours of an old man’s ramblings about how things used to be, but Harry would sit, listen, and even ask questions. 

Father Michael taught Harry the Bible, when he learned that Harry hadn’t so much as heard the story of Adam or Eve (Wizards and witches of the Bathilda’s generation largely held no interest in the religion that had forced their forefathers into hiding). Harry was invited to the children’s Sunday lessons at the church, and Harry obligingly attended every week. He thought it a rather good story at times, with plagues and floods and grand wars, though the necromancy in the latter parts was a bit strange in Harry’s mind. The other children were fun to play with, though the parents asked too many questions about Harry’s parentage and such.

Harry knew he was a wizard, and that was cause enough for excitement as his eleventh birthday approached. Finally he’d be able to buy a wand and learn magic. Harry expected that he’d continue living with Bathilda until he turned seventeen and made his own way in life, or maybe he’d be able to attend one of those day schools or lessons by correspondence that he’d heard about. 

Bathilda liked to talk about Hogwarts and when she realized that Harry was almost eleven she grew excited at the prospect of him going to Hogwarts like she had long ago. The problem Harry saw was that he had absolutely no idea who his parents were. He’d asked Bathilda, many times in fact, but Bathilda gave different answers depending on when he asked and much of the time she didn’t seem to know either. 

Harry asked Kettle, and Kettle explained that there had been a war when Harry was very young, and that many witches and wizards died during the war, leaving many orphans behind to be sent to live with distant relatives. Kettle didn’t know who Harry’s parents were, but Bathilda brought Harry to the house at the very end of the war, in fact, Kettle recalls meeting Harry on the day news of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Name’s disappearance was announced in the newspaper. 

Harry, like all witches and wizards in the UK would receive a letter on his eleventh birthday inviting him to attend, but Harry wasn’t sure who would be able to pay for his attendance. From what Harry understood, Hogwarts was quite pricy, and while Bathilda still received enough money from her books being sold to live quite well off of, Harry doubted she had the savings to send Harry to Hogwarts, or if she did have the savings to do so Harry wasn’t sure that she would use them on someone who wasn’t really her child. 

His eleventh birthday came and went, Kettle made a cake and Bathilda called him Katherine a few times, but she was otherwise quite lucid. Harry hadn’t held out much hope of a letter from Hogwarts, while Bathilda had money enough from the sales of her books to support herself in her retirement, there wasn’t much to spare, and Kettle did miraculous things with the monthly budget. 

Harry wouldn’t ask Bathilda to pay for his attendance at Hogwarts, she’d done so much for him already, he wouldn’t ask for this. He read about Hogwarts, Bathilda was something of an expert, and it sounded wondrous, but expensive, the best school of magic on this side of the channel if the Ministry of Magic’s claims were to be believed. 

There was no boy named Harry Bagshot on the Hogwarts admissions list, and the name Harry Potter had been removed just a few years ago when the Ministry declared the last member of the Potter family dead after years without a single lead on the missing person’s case. The aurors on the case had never held out much hope, while they hadn’t found the child’s remains, in the ruins of the burnt house it was not entirely unexpected that a child’s remains might be lost in the rubble and ash. 

Turning eleven was exciting in its own ways though, it was the traditional age for a child to be given their first magical focus, a wand these days. Harry had asked Kettle time and again to use one of the wands in the attic, and every time Kettle had responded that Harry was not to have a wand until he turned eleven. Now that he’d turned eleven, Harry waited until Bathilda had a good day, a little over a week after his birthday, and asked Bathilda if he could have a wand. She seemed slightly surprised that he was eleven years old, but upon hearing that he didn’t have a wand yet, decided that would soon be fixed.

“Senseless to waste money on what we already have.” Bathilda said, and then ordered Kettle to retrieve the wands from the attic. Moments later, Kettle appeared with a pop, and dumped an armful of old wands on the kitchen table. “Pick one up.” Bathilda urged, more excited about the whole ordeal than Harry was. Harry felt rather ill actually, the enormity of this moment (in his mind) weighing on him. Kettle watched from the doorway, grumbling about the mess Harry would make playing with magic in the kitchen.

The first wand did nothing, the second burst into flame and was quickly thrown on the floor and stomped on a good number of times before the flames went out. Kettle cleaned up the charred, and smoking wood with a sigh. The third wand made a noise like a toad being croaking, then emitted some sulfurous smoke. The fourth felt warm in Harry’s hand, as if it were alive, and he quite liked it. He had to try the rest of the wands to be sure of course, but he set that fourth wand aside. 

The fifth gave off a shrill whistle until Harry put it down. The sixth and seventh did nothing. The eighth wand flew out of Harry’s hand like a rocket the moment he picked it up, it flew through the window, sending shattered glass all across the room, and kept on flying until it vanished into the blue sky. Bathilda watched the wand go with a peaceful expression.

“Uncle Barrus always did like flying.” Bathilda said. Kettle vanished the broken glass, glaring at Harry all the while as if Harry had thrown the wand at the window out of spite.

“Kettle said this would happen. Magic makes a mess of the kitchen.” Kettle said. Harry picked up the fourth wand again, and it felt pleasant in his hand.

“This one seems good.” Harry said.

“No, no, no.” Bathilda cried, “You do not choose a wand, you have to test it.” Harry looked at her for direction. “Repeat after me.” Bathilda held up her wand, so that it pointed straight up into the air. “ _Lumos_.” she said, enunciating it very carefully. Harry held up his wand and said the same.

“Lumos.” nothing happened. Harry tried again, speaking slowly and clearly. The end of the wand glowed with a faint white light. Harry grinned at Bathilda, and the light brightened a bit.

“Lovely. Now _nox_ will end the spell.” Bathilda instructed. 

“Nox.” Harry said, and again had to repeat himself, several times in fact, before the light vanished. Bathilda held out a hand.

“Let me see that wand.” A bit hesitantly, Harry handed it over. Already he felt a little colder without it. Bathilda looked at the wand, peering through her thick lensed glasses. “Kettle, what was Arista’s wand made out of?” Bathilda asked. Kettle thought a moment.

“Olive wood and phoenix feather Lady Bagshot.” Kettle said. Bathilda handed the wand back to Harry with a smile.

“Lovely my dear. Arista Bagshot was my brother Grimheld’s wife. Harpy of a woman, but powerful in her day. I don’t know what Grimheld was thinking marrying her.” Bathilda leaned in close to Harry, “I do hope her children don’t inherit a knut.” she whispered. Harry nodded. Grimheld Bagshot had died in 1914, his children were long dead as well, though some of his grandchildren might still be alive somewhere. Harry didn’t mention the fate of Grimheld and his children, instead opting to thank Bathilda profusely and asking if she’d like lunch.


	4. Parents and Guardians

Kettle helped Harry write and send a request to the office of underage magic at the Ministry. Bathilda didn’t understand why such a letter was necessary, she seemed to think that the Ministry had no authority to regulate Harry’s use of magic in her household. Harry smiled and calmed her, saying that he’d keep that in mind. 

Kettle made a trip to the Ministry to pick up the paperwork, it wasn’t an uncommon request, any child who was unable or did not wish to attend one of the schools of magic needed to request special dispensation so that the office of underage magic wouldn’t punish them for using magic at home. The request simply required Bathilda’s signature, as Harry’s guardian.

“Kettle.” Harry called, sitting at the desk in Bathlida’s study one morning just a few days after he’d gotten his wand. He’d been trying to fill out the paperwork Kettle brought him from the Ministry, he had the papers spread across Bathilda’s massive wooden desk, along with several dictionaries for the technical and legalistic terms he didn’t understand. 

Kettle appeared in front of the desk with a pop, and gave Harry a disapproving look upon seeing that Harry had made himself at home in Bathilda’s study. It wasn’t as though Bathilda used the study very often these days, Harry hadn’t seen anything wrong with making himself at home in the study. 

“Little Harry, is something troubling you?” Kettle asked, his hands and tunic were covered in flour, and he looked somewhat disgruntled at being pulled away from his work.

“Sorry to interrupt your work, but I’m having some difficulties.” Harry gestured at the paperwork in front of him. “You know the Bagshot family history very well, right?” Harry asked. Kettle nodded sharply.

“Yes, Kettle is being very old. Kettle has served many generations in the Bagshot family, and knows much from Old Beetle, who served before Kettle, and Old Clover who served before Old Beetle.” Kettle said, and Harry was quite sure Kettle could continue tracing the line of house elves who’d served the Bagshot family back much further.

“How exactly am I related to Bathilda?” Harry asked. He was obviously some kind of relative, but Harry had never actually thought much on the topic of how exactly he was related to Bathilda. He knew that he’d come to be in Bathilda’s care during the very end of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s terrors, he’d tried to ask Bathlida about his parents before, and gotten a range of answers. 

Bathilda would sometimes tell Harry the names of his parents, except those names always turned out to be members of the Bagshot family that had been dead well before Harry was born, and sometimes she claimed to have no idea, or even claimed that he was her son, which was obviously not possible. Harry didn’t like to think much on his parents, he knew he had parents, but he’d been raised by Bathilda and Kettle, his parents were either gone, or wanted no part of his upbringing. Harry tried to convince himself that it didn’t much matter.

Kettle pulled on his ears nervously. “Lady Bagshot doesn’t tell Kettle such things.” Kettle said, “Kettle is not sure.” Harry frowned.

“I have to write something.” Harry said, pointing his quill at the sections of the paperwork he needed to fill in. “Bathilda Bagshot, guardian. Parents? Relation of guardian?” Harry jabbed his quill at the page, leaving a blot of ink, much to his irritation. Kettle frowned.

“Kettle can be getting the family book.” Kettle suggested. 

“Please Kettle.” Harry agreed, and Kettle vanished with a pop. Harry felt like pulling his hair out. He wanted desperately to learn magic, but the sheer amount of paperwork involved was making him consider doing so illegally and hoping the Ministry wouldn’t catch on. They hadn’t caught him when Bathilda taught him that light spell when he got his wand after all, if he only did magic at home maybe the Ministry would never notice.

Kettle reappeared, an extremely large leather bound book in his arms. He carefully set the book on the table.

Written on the cover in elaborate golden letters was the word _Bogasceot_.

Harry sounded out the title, and glanced at Kettle. 

“Bagshot wasn’t always being called Bagshot.” Kettle explained. Harry nodded, and carefully opened the dark brown leather cover. He felt as though the book would dissolve at his touch, it felt old, very old. 

The first pages were in a language Harry did not understand, though he could read some of the individual letters. He kept turning pages, and the words became more and more legible as he flipped further into the book. Kettle watched, standing on his toes to peer over the edge of the desk, he was as fascinated with the book at Harry. 

The names began to look familiar. The name Bagshot, in its modern form, did not appear until the 1600’s, before that there were forms like Bowshot, Bowscot, Baegscot, and such, with the occasionally oddity as people married into the family or Bagshot family members married out into other families. Harry approached the twentieth century, and began to peer at the names more carefully, he recognized some of the names from the graveyards of Godrics Hollow. 

There was a name Harry recognized, but not from a headstone, rather it was from the many history books he’d read. Gellert Grindelwald, son of Johannes Grindelwald and Emmaline Bagshot. Harry paused, this certainly put those times when Bathilda called him Gellert in a new light. Kettle read down the page, and his ears drooped.

“Little Gellert.” Kettle whispered, “Kettle knows he’s having done bad things.” Harry turned the page, not wanting to linger, a feeling of unease was curling up in his gut. He wasn’t reading the book to research Dark Lords, he had to find his parents. 

He reached the twentieth century, and the records became less and less complete. In 1973 Daniel Bagshot died, and few records beyond that were kept. The handwriting of the entry on Daneil’s death was in the familiar hand of Bathilda, and Harry had seen many pictures of Daniel around the house. Harry flipped back a page, scanning the names, wondering which of them was his parents, if any. He could prove nothing, of course, these people were almost certainly all dead. The Bagshot family was a small clan these days, Bathilda and Harry, a few distant cousins in central and eastern Europe. 

“Marius Bagshot, born in 1954. Kettle, do you know anything about him?” Harry asked. Marius would have been the right age to have been Harry’s father, but no information beyond date of birth, parentage, and name was listed. 

“Kettle met Master Marius, he was being very sick.” Kettle said, “Kettle did not see Master Marius again.” Harry looked down at the entry in the family book, Marius would have been the right age, and there were few others listen who could potentially be Harry’s parents. 

Hilda Bagshot, born 1934, would have likely been too old to be his mother. George Bagshot, born 1970 would have been too young in all likelihood. Morgan Bagshot was born in 1956, but was noted at having died three days after birth. Harry needed to put something on the Ministry forms if he was to be able to practice magical in a legal way. Harry though for several minutes, and then wrote slowly and carefully.

_Parents: Marius Bagshot (Father), Mary Smith (Mother)_

Harry had no idea who to put down at his mother, he could do research later and try to figure this out, find his mother, determine whether or not Marius was in fact his father. For now though, Harry chose as common sounding a name as he could for his mother and left Marius Bagshot his father.

_Guardian (If different than above): Bathilda Bagshot (Great-Great-Grand Aunt)_

Harry listed Bathilda’s relation to him as though he were Marius’s son. 

“What do you think?” Harry asked, showing the paper to Kettle.

“Little Harry is being very tricky.” Kettle said, giving Harry a small smile, full of sharp, yellow teeth. 

When the paperwork was finished and Kettle had agreed to deliver it to the Ministry the next morning, Harry tried to speak to Bathilda about Marius Bagshot, and Gellert Grindelwald too. Bathilda was sitting in the library, reading a book she’d read many times before but could not recall having read. 

“Oh, Marius? Has he gotten over that awful flu?” Bathilda asked when Harry brought Marius up. “Poor boy, to be kept out of Hogwarts over a flu, poor dear.” Bathlida added. “Frank, you must remember to tell your professors that Marius will be returning soon when you go back to school.” Bathilda chided. 

“Of course.” Harry agreed, suspecting that Frank was Franklin Bagshot, who died in 1969 in an accident with a muggle vehicle one morning, his grave was one Harry had seen many times. “And what about Gellert Grindelwald, can you tell me about him Bathilda?” Harry asked. Bathilda looked at him long and hard, some clarity returning to her gaze.

“I do not want to speak of him.” Bathilda said in a hard tone Harry had not often heard before.

“I just-“ Harry began, Bathilda tried to stand as quickly as she could, sending her book to the floor, and almost losing her balance. Harry lunged to catch her by the arm.

“Don’t touch me!” Bathilda screeched, and Kettle appeared in the library at the noise. 

“Lady Bagshot!” Kettle called out, “He is just being going.” Kettle assured her, Harry nodded, he knew how this went. As soon as he was sure Bathilda would not fall over should he let go of her, Harry fled the library. He could hear Kettle behind him trying to calm Bathilda. These were Harry’s least favorite sort of days.

The Ministry response arrived by the end of the week with an exhausted looking barn owl. Harry’s request for an allowance to perform underaged magic had been accepted, so long as he checked in with the office of underage magic by the tenth of every third month, and committed no crimes in the meantime, he would remain able to use magic legally.


End file.
